Faith or Separatism? The Hazratbal Emblem Attack
The image of the Ashoka emblem, India’s national symbol of sovereignty, lying defaced at the Hazratbal shrine is more than just vandalism. It is a question that cuts deep into the uneasy intersection of faith and separatist politics in Kashmir. Was this truly about religious sensitivity, or was it another chapter in the long saga of rejecting the Indian Republic itself? When a symbol of the nation cannot survive the sanctity of a renovated shrine, the lines between piety and politics blur dangerously.
The immediate justification offered was familiar: Islam prohibits figurative imagery in places of worship. But the Ashoka emblem is no idol. It is not a god to be worshipped, but the official seal of a Republic that guarantees the very freedoms zealots claim to protect. To shatter it is to send a message far beyond faith—it is a gesture of defiance aimed squarely at the Indian state. Cloaking separatism in the language of religious sentiment is not new in Kashmir, but each such act chips away at the fragile façade of integration.
This is not an isolated incident. Symbols of the Indian state have always been under siege in the Valley. Tricolour flags are torn down on Independence Day, government buildings are attacked, and now even the national emblem cannot stand untouched. Every stone hurled at a symbol of the Republic is not just vandalism—it is a declaration that India is unwelcome in spirit, if not in law. The Hazratbal attack is a continuation of this rejection, a reminder that symbolic warfare is alive even after Article 370’s abrogation.
The irony is bitter. The Hazratbal shrine was renovated at a staggering cost of ₹45 crore, funded by the Indian taxpayer. It was part of a national project to preserve heritage and promote tourism. Yet the very emblem that represents those taxpayers, that signifies the Republic’s role in funding and preserving the shrine, was treated as an unwanted intruder. This raises a blunt question: should public money be spent on institutions that cannot even tolerate the presence of the nation’s own emblem?
Political reactions, as always, were divided. BJP leaders and the Waqf Board condemned the act as an assault on India’s soul, demanding tough measures under the Public Safety Act. On the other side, Omar Abdullah chose to question why a national symbol was placed in a shrine at all, arguing that state emblems do not belong in spaces of worship. This convenient logic sidesteps the real issue: was it the placement that offended, or was it the emblem itself? The silence of other parties, hiding behind vague condemnations, shows how deeply uncomfortable it still is for mainstream Kashmiri politics to defend Indian symbols without caveats.
At its heart, this controversy is not about religion but about the idea of India in Kashmir. A shrine can coexist with a national emblem without compromising faith—millions of mosques, temples, and churches across the world coexist with their nations’ seals and flags. But here, faith was wielded as a weapon to justify rejection of the state itself. India can respect religious belief, but when faith becomes a fig leaf for separatism, it endangers not just symbols, but sovereignty.
Perhaps the next time the government considers spending ₹45 crore on preserving a shrine, it should save itself the trouble and simply send blank cheques—no lions, no wheels, no Ashoka emblem—lest someone’s sensitivities are hurt by the mere suggestion of the Republic’s presence. After all, in Kashmir, even stone lions can roar too loudly for separatist comfort.
